Spider in the Corner of the Room - [44]

‘Looking for this?’

‘Yes.’

She holds it out to me. I hesitate then take it. I try to ignore her, but there is a tug on my sleeve.

‘Hey,’ Bobbie says, pointing. ‘She your friend?’

‘Doc,’ whispers Patricia, ‘it’s Michaela.’

I see her. She is striding towards us. I touch my forehead where my right temple still has a shadow of a bruise, mild panic bubbling underneath my skin.

Bobbie throws down her fork and drags back her chair. ‘It’s okay, Doc, like I said, I’ve got your back.’ And with that, she stands and positions herself between Michaela and me.

‘Mickie, isn’t it?’ says Bobbie, smiling. ‘How are you?’

I look to Bobbie. Does she already know Michaela Croft? But how? Bobbie has only just arrived at Goldmouth.

Michaela pushes Bobbie to one side. ‘Fuck off, you psycho.’

‘And so lovely to see you, too, Michaela,’ says Bobbie, bowing.

‘You,’ Michaela says, jabbing a finger at me, ‘I got fucking solitary because of you.’

Her accent. It is her regular East London accent, but there is something different. I try to place it, but nothing. No memory. No thoughts. I find myself clenching my fists.

‘Cat got your tongue?’ Michaela says, taking a step towards me.

I touch my tongue; no cat on there.

‘Leave it, Croft,’ says Bobbie.

Michaela goes still and looks down; Bobbie has put a hand on her chest. I search for the guards, but they are nowhere to be seen.

‘Get your hands off me, psycho.’ Michaela is glaring at Bobbie, but Bobbie simply smiles. Scared, I pick up my knife, but Patricia gives a quick shake of her head. I let go of the metal.

Slowly, with her eyes on Michaela, Bobbie lowers her hand. And then it happens. Michaela-fast, precise-lunges towards me. Before I can move, before I can roll away, she clutches my blouse, dragging me up, out of my seat. The room erupts.

I try to move backwards, but Michaela’s grip is solid, so I go for a punch to her head-right side, on her temples, and I must have hit because I can hear yelling, but it is muffled, like being underwater. Michaela has her hands on me now, around my neck and so I slap her, hard on the cheek, but her grip is still tight. So, desperate, I kick, three sharp jabs to her shin with the heel of my shoe, but, even though she cries out, she pulls me back, does not let go. I try to unravel her fingers, but cannot get free. I try to dig her with my elbow, shove her-nothing. But then-pop. Michaela’s grip slackens. Just like that. I drop to the floor and gulp great swells of air. Michaela is gasping for breath beside me, her body writhing on the floor.

‘Bloody hell, Bobbie,’ Patricia says, ‘what did you do?’

I dart my eyes back and forth. The guards are running over now, the room sways, my mind whirring. And that, then, is when I remember: Michaela in the cell. Her accent changed. She was Scottish. Suddenly, like a game of dominoes, all the pieces connect, fall into one another. Bang, bang, bang. She told me to stay put. She knew of Father Reznik. She is Scottish. The medical notes my father found, they were from a hospital in Scotland.

Which means she is not who she says she is.

‘Get up, Doc, quick!’ says Patricia.

My brain engages. I scramble up to a stand and Patricia brushes me down. ‘Let Bobbie handle this,’ she whispers.

The guards run over. They know something is happening, but as far as I can tell, they have seen nothing. No detail.

Bobbie shouts to them. ‘She’s choking! Help us. Quick!’ Then briefly, in the blink of an eye, she turns to me and smiles like someone who has just walked out of an asylum.

Three guards arrive.

‘Help her!’ Bobbie is saying, but she is not looking at the guards, she is looking at me. Bobbie jerks her eyes to Michaela, but I do not understand.

‘Tell the guards,’ says Patricia, fast. ‘Doc, tell the guards what is wrong.’

Now I comprehend. I point to Michaela. ‘She is asphyxiating,’ I say, quickly. The guards hesitate. I crouch to my knees and tug at Michaela’s collar. ‘Her trachea has been restricted. Her airway.’

‘She’s a doctor,’ says Bobbie.

The guard eyes me with suspicion. ‘What was with the raised voices before?’

‘Oh, you know,’ Bobbie says to the guard, ‘high jinx. I think some food might have gone down the wrong way.’

I tilt my head. That is not true. I open my mouth to say so when there is a tug on my blouse. Patricia is glaring at me, a finger on her lips. ‘Ssssh.’

The guard looks at us. ‘All right,’ she says, ‘let’s get Croft checked out.’ She twists to face the dining hall. ‘Show’s over,’ she says, addressing the staring audience of inmates. When no one moves, she yells, ‘Bugger off. Now. Or you’ll find your TV privileges revoked.’

The inmates grumble, shuffling off, and I watch as Michaela is led away, her feet dragging along the tiles, face white, small pink fingermarks on her neck.

Patricia whistles. ‘Holy Jesus.’ She turns to me. ‘Doc, you okay?’

I nod.

‘Then let’s go.’

I start to follow her when I feel a tap on my shoulder. I turn. Bobbie hands me my notebook. ‘Watch out,’ she says.

‘For what?’ I snatch the writing pad from her.

She steps in closer. ‘Don’t trust anyone, you hear me?’ Her eyes dart left and right. ‘You’re not safe in here. They thought you would be, but now that’s changed. Everything has changed. Someone is after you in here, in the prison.’